Snowflakes in Twilight
by LePhantomessa
Summary: Post-film. A drunken one-night stand with Jack drives Pitch to do everything he can to make sure it's forgotten, but he didn't count on one thing ever happening, especially to him. Now, everything's changed, and Jack's trying to figure out why Pitch won't talk to him anymore. Eventual BlackIce, Mpreg. Prompted by the ROTG kinkmeme.


WARNING: Yaoi, mpreg, language, sexual situations, maybe violence later on

Disclaimer: I own nothing ROTG. Nor do I own the prompt for this.

Dreamwidth rotg_kink prompt:

Jack knocks up Pitch and Pitch is not happy. Bonus if he feels extremely sad but he doesn't understand why.

** Also Jack is a dominant power top sexually and I'm thinking of Pitch wrapping his long limbs around Jack as he takes it roughly

* * *

_Snowflakes in Twilight_

It's hard to pinpoint when exactly this all started. Originally, Jack had only come to make sure Pitch wasn't dead or being ripped to pieces by his Mares, but he'd hastily covered it up with, "Just making sure you aren't plotting to take over the world anytime soon."

To which the Boogeyman promptly replied: "Of course I'm plotting. What else is there to do down here?"

Jack just smirked, cocked his head, and chuckled. "Oh, I could think of a few things to do here in the dark. You're pretty familiar with beds, aren't you?"

He'd barely missed having his head torn clean away by a sudden onslaught of flying stalactites, and flew away on the wind, laughing at the furious - and flushed - face of the Nightmare King.

These meetings continued for quite some time, but not to the Guardians' knowledge, of course, and they all went the same. Jack would float in, banter with the older spirit, occasionally make a fluffy white mess of his dark and gloomy lair, and leave after tossing out a few, not-so-subtle innuendos about adding a little light to some dark crevasses. They were annoyances, but they did break up the monotony of the cave; Pitch still didn't have enough strength to go out and spread his night terrors as he wanted.

Soon, what was once a bother became something to look forward to. Pitch hadn't been lying when he said he was lonely, and the company, while persistently intrusive into things best left alone (especially his lack of a love life), quickly became a welcome sight as the years passed. At least Jack didn't completely hate him. The two were so similar, after all, and of all of the spirits in the world, the winter sprite knew how badly it stung to be ignored and sneered at like a common housefly that wouldn't leave bloody well enough alone. It also didn't help that the boy was so visually appealing.

But Pitch knew better than to push beyond that. The other Guardians despised him, wanted him dead and gone for good, much less anywhere near their precious, delicate little Frost. A friendship would see him underneath five gleaming guillotines with bleeding gums and Easter eggs stuffed down his throat.

A relationship would see him under six blades. Or seven, depending on how he was positioned and how certain parts of him were divided.

All of this ran through his head as he woke to a bleating migraine, a sore arse, and a very, _VERY_ naked Jack Frost in his bedchamber.

"Note to self, send NightMares to destroy every distillery and vineyard within 500 meters of snow," he muttered, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his backside. The boy had really done a number on him. Just what had they been doing last night, fucking on the stone ceiling?

_- wrists had been frozen in place against the rough granite, and his legs had been wrapped around the younger form, almost long enough to wrap around twice, heels digging in to pale white shoulders as the younger spirit thrust, deeper, deeper, harder, soft hands gripping grey hips surprisingly strong, there would certainly be bruises and there went his lips at his ears and his tongue was doing something that made his toes curl deliciously and oh sweet mercy couldn't he go any** faster** than this -_

Pitch's eyes widened, almost comically, before he dragged the heel of his palm over his face. On second thought, he didn't particularly want to remember. It would certainly keep his mind intact for longer.

His yellow gaze flitted over to the still sleeping form of the snow spirit - _Guardian_, he reminded himself, the boy was a _Guardian_, shouldn't he care more about this? - and he tried to think. This was not going to turn out well, that much he knew. The rest of the Moon's darling do-gooders, once they found out (and oh, they _would_ find out, some way or another), would accuse him of tainting and defiling their precious, pure white snow child, and proceed to torture him accordingly for such an act.

Pitch, for one, didn't want to be at the Sandman's mercy again. Nor did he want to lose any more teeth. He didn't even want to consider what St. North could do with his scimitars. Not to mention the Kangaroo's frankly enormous boomerang. What was the purpose in having them that size, anyway? Did he make them himself, or were they custom made? Perhaps St. North made them; he seemed the type to make giant weapons for someone, children or otherwise, to swing about like a lunatic.

A low moan sifted through the piles of cushions and blankets, and Pitch froze as Jack stretched and shifted, before falling back into unconsciousness with a contented sigh. He shook the useless thoughts away - stupid, pointless contemplations like these were doing nothing to help - and immediately regretted it as a fleet of horses trampled noisily through his head.

This was getting him nowhere.

He summoned up a swath of shadow to settle upon his shoulders, and gingerly made his way to a vertical position, sharp pains running down his legs and through his back. He stumbled over the assorted mess of fabrics and made it to the wall relatively unscathed. He ran stiff fingers through his tangled hair, a vain attempt at collecting himself, and pressed his temple against the cool, flat surface.

What on earth was he going to do now?

This couldn't continue. Jack - no, Frost - that Guardian had to go. As nice as it would have been to have him stay _(to continue where they left off)_, as warm as he felt thinking about having someone there to have and to hold in lonely times _(always having him there, nearby, chilled skin contrasting beautifully against an expanse of canvas the color of smeared charcoal)_, it would never work. He could no less change than Jack could. It would only end badly. It would only ever end badly; and Pitch didn't think he could bear another rejection from Jack. The first time had been bad enough, thank you very much. His cold dismissal of everything the two of them could have had together, done together, **been** together, was ever-present and lingering in his mind like a bad taste in his mouth, or a nightmare in a child's mind once they woke.

_Like a nightmare..._

A plan started to piece itself together, tendrils slowly melding and pulling into one solid whole. He could pull it off, quite easily. The Sandman was constantly working - it was always night somewhere in the world - and he could sneak enough of his golden sand away to make it work. The billowing darkness that curled at the edges of his domain could take care of Ja- the **Guardian's** clothes.

The Nightmare King braced himself, and rose, sparing a final, longing glance towards the blankets.

It would be so easy to climb back in right now. So, so easy...

He closed his eyes, summoned a vial, and rose slowly towards the surface, directing the remaining shadows to clothe the spirit gently and not wake him up. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and tried to ignore the heavy feeling knotting in the pit of his stomach.

He had dreamsand to steal.

l-l

Jack blinked, stretched blindly towards the sky, and promptly fell out of the tree, hitting what felt like every branch on the way down before landing in a heap on the muddy ground.

"Ow..." he mumbled, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. He checked his staff for any possible damage, and, satisfied that it was unscathed, stood.

This was a bad idea. His stomach rebelled heavily, and the snow sprite found himself emptying the meager remains into a nearby bush.

What the hell happened last night?

He rose to his feet, and swore as he stepped onto a piece of glass, leaping about ten feet into the air. Perched from his staff, he saw the shattered remains of two or three bottles of -

Oh yeah. The peppermint schnapps. Now he remembered.

He'd gone to North's workshop to discuss working on a worldwide white Christmas for the kids that year. Unfortunately, the elves had (somehow) gotten into the Russian's personal liquor cabinet, and after about a quarter bottle of amontillado had invaded the Post Office and somehow managed to take Phil hostage. North had been distracted enough to say yes, Jack could take a little something from the cabinet so long as he froze the cursed thing shut, before he left, muttering something about "every year they take post office, why post office?" He hadn't really paid attention, figuring the older man knew enough about what he was doing to handle it without him, and he'd left, minty prize gleefully in hand.

And then... what? He recalled flying towards Burgess - had he been going to visit Pitch? Maybe. He always did like getting the darker spirit annoyed, face flushing in that pleasant shade of -

_- head rolled back against the cushions, sweat beading at his forehead, spine arching as he squeezed his legs around Jack like a vice, but that wasn't the only thing tightening and he grinned widely as he thrust further in and relished the sound of Pitch's cries as they reverberated around the -_

What.

The Fuck.

Jack exhaled shakily. No. No, that didn't happen. Pitch Black was too proud for that, too aloof, too distant. It couldn't possibly have happened, he thought, as he ran a shaky hand through his hair -

- and watched, puzzled, as a fine dusting of gold drifted to the forest floor.

Oh. _Ohhh._ It - that was just - it was only -

Jack let out a shivery laugh, trembling in relief (_disappointment, frustration,** longing**_). It had only been Sandy. Sandy, who'd probably passed by him, drunk as all and sundry, and decided to leave him a joke, as a reminder not to leave himself vulnerable, to be a bit more responsible with the hard stuff. A very strange, heated dream to be sure, but he supposed the lesson had been learned well enough:

Don't drink where another Guardian can find you, and, subsequently, take advantage of you for it.

He laughed again, more freely this time, and collapsed into one of the remaining few snowdrifts lingering, muddy and half-melted. A warm, stinging sensation reminded him of his cut foot, oozing deep red into the ice, and he leapt up again. He needed intense cold to take care of that, and he wasn't going to find that anytime soon in Burgess - at least, not with Spring fully setting in.

"Hey Wind! Could I get a lift to Alaska?" With a whirl and a face full of flurries, he was swept up into the open blue. "Thank you!"

He briefly considered stopping by Pitch's cavern, but decided against it for the moment. He wasn't quite running on all cylinders at the moment, and it wouldn't do for the Boogieman to gain the advantage in their little encounters.

It was a good thing he hadn't gone to see Pitch when he was drunk. Heaven knew what might have happened, or what Jack would have done to Pitch, had he been around him.

_'Maybe you would have woken up in bed together'_, he thought.

_'That would have been lovely,'_ a little voice in his head spoke up, sighing dreamily.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Jack groaned. The wind shrieked around him, and it was only then that he realized he'd said that out loud.

"No wait - I wasn't talking to - I was talking about something **_ELLLSE!_**" Jack shrieked as he was tossed through the air like a frosty tumbleweed, and felt his stomach heave again.

"This just isn't my day, is it."

The wind replied by dropping him six hundred feet, before spinning him like cotton candy around the clouds, unaware of the golden eyes peering from the flourishing forest below.

o-o

Pitch watched until the boy was well out of sight before he moved, maintaining special care to keep within the shadows. A fairly simple task, for once; it was March, and Spring was hitting the flora with full force.

Everything had gone off without a hitch. Jack had been dressed and left hanging in a pine, the bottles had been smashed and carefully arranged around the base of the tree, and the dreamsand had been successfully stolen - although, for safety's sake, Pitch ended up dumping the equivalent of a jar of the blasted stuff over the ice spirit's head, dying his icicle hair brilliant gold for the next few hours.

After all, one couldn't be too careful in this day and age.

He stood watching the cloudless sky for a moment longer, a grim, wistful swatch of black against the landscape, before he swept back to the entrance of his lair. He took a deep breath, raised his hands, and beckoned his Fearlings to close the entrance.

And as the light was slowly, but surely, swallowed by his loyal creatures, the same heavy knot clenched in his gut, and a dizzy feeling struck him.

He swayed, shook it off, and glimpsed the sky before the earth sealed him away.

It was better this way.

* * *

My first ROTG fanfic, and I didn't even plan it. The prompt just threw out an idea in my brain, and off it went! Hope I don't sound too hokey. Do enjoy.


End file.
